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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687119">when all else fails (i’ll still be right here)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear'>onawingandaswear</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Check Please! (Webcomic)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Culinary Star Bitty, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, NHL Player Jack Zimmermann, Quebec City Nordiques, Self-Worth Issues, Slice of Life, Takes place over several years, The Heartbreakfest fic that wasn't sad enough, Trade AU, Vignette, almost heartbreakfest, discussions of Adoption, long distance, relationship tensions, so now it goes here!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:54:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,098</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687119</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The National Hockey League is resurrecting the Quebec City Nordiques, and the expansion draft hits the Falconers much harder than expected.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>284</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>when all else fails (i’ll still be right here)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The whole thing was inspired by Jack being selected in an Expansion Draft ala the Vegas Golden Knights — ending up in a new city, playing for a team with a very big chip on it's shoulder, and having to deal with the emotional fall-out on a personal and professional level. </p><p>There is a vignette style to the segments of this fic and some parts are fleshed out more heavily than others. I've been sitting on it for a few months and I just felt like finally posting it so someone might get enjoyment from it &lt;3 &lt;3 &lt;3</p><p>(As always, find me at whoacanada.tumblr.com)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="u"> <span class="s1"> <b>Year One</b> </span> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Eric’s fretting over dinner options when Jack’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket — a specific triple-tone vibration he’d set for Georgia almost three years earlier. Eric waves a fond hand Jack’s direction as he steps outside to take the call — already knowing it isn’t going to be happy news.</p><p class="p1">“‘<em>Ello</em>, George. Who’s it going to be? Tell me we didn’t lose Poots, you know he just bought a house.”</p><p class="p1">Through the patio door, Jack can see his husband dancing around their brand new kitchen, renovated specifically for Eric’s web series; plating their dinner, adjusting the light and angling his phone to get the best photo possible.</p><p class="p1">This is their first home, too; nestled in the suburbs, a stone’s throw from Tater’s place and just a neighborhood over from Marty’s. Running distance. Good schools. Enough guest rooms they’ll never have to send their parents to hotels over the holidays. They’ve already leveled the ground in the back for a greenhouse and garden in the spring, the yard large enough for pets and, one day, if Jack’s lucky, children.</p><p class="p1"><em>“It’s not Fitz. It’s you.”</em> Georgia says after a loaded silence, tone as gentle as it is remorseful. “<em>You’re not protected from the Quebec City expansion draft, Jack.”</em></p><p class="p1">“Yeah, right.” Jack says reflexively, not quite finding the humor in her joke. “Who’s it really?”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Your contract renewal didn’t make the Player Association cutoff. The Quebec owners are threatening legal action if we try to expand coverage because you’re technically eligible and they want to build the team around a ‘star’ — Word about your contract hasn’t hit the news yet, but you’re going to get a call tomorrow from Jeremy Wilmington, and, probably, Bettman. Quebec is going to pick you first.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">She’s serious. She’s <em>serious</em>.</p><p class="p1">“George? George.” Jack tries to keep his tone even, not sure why he’s explaining this to a woman who knows him better than most anyone. “Right? Yeah, I don’t <em>want</em> to go to Quebec to play for an expansion team that isn’t going to have a playoff run for a decade.”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“We tried, Jack. No one wants this. We’ve been on calls with the owners all day, the lawyers, but the ruling came down from the league office tonight —“</em>
</p><p class="p1">“George. This isn’t funny.”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“— At the end of the month, you’ll officially be a Quebec City Nordique.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">Jack balls his fist and presses the heel of his hand to the iron railing on the porch, pushing down until his knuckles turn white and he feels something pop.</p><p class="p1"><em>“I wanted you to hear it from me.” </em>Georgia apologizes softly. <em>“I know this isn’t what you want. I know this isn’t good for Eric’s career either.”</em></p><p class="p1">“He can’t even speak French, George,” Jack exhales in a desperate half-laugh, already feeling himself dissociating from the news. “Bitty’s supposed to open his first storefront in Blackstone at the end of the year; he just signed the lease agreement.”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“I know, Jack. I know.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">“So, what do I do?”</p><p class="p1">There’s a moment of contemplation, and Jack briefly thinks the call has dropped before George huffs a breath.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“You can do one of two things, Jack: You can move to Quebec, and you can become the first, best captain that franchise will ever have, or you can give up, and chose to end your career with a whimper instead of a scream.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">Jack sits with her words, listens to the breathing across the line, and says, “Yeah, but if I tank the team, you can get me back to Providence.”</p><p class="p1">George barks a laugh, and Jack finds a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“You burn that team and I’ll come up there to kick your ass myself.”</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Jack doesn’t go back inside. Not at first. He straightens, adjusts his posture for a breathing exercise, and calls his father, preempting the man’s jovial greeting with, “Botched the contract negotiations. I’m going to Quebec City. Announcement’s probably coming later this week.”</p><p class="p1">There’s no response for a long moment.</p><p class="p1">“It’s done,” Jack swallows, answering his father’s unasked question, throat so tight it’s becoming painful. “I’m a<em> Nordique.</em>”</p><p class="p1"><em>“You know I was an overnight trade,”</em> Bob says softly. <em>“So was your uncle Wayne. It happens to the best of us, sometimes at the top of your game when you least expect it, and it always hurts.”</em></p><p class="p1">“I can’t ask Bitty to move.” Jack sniffs hard, fighting tears, heedless of the way his voice cracks like he’s sixteen again. “Not now. He’s got so much in the works, I can’t just—”</p><p class="p1"><em>“So don’t.”</em> Bob interrupts. <em>“You think your mother and I lived together the whole time I was in Pittsburgh? Felt like she spent half the year in New York and the other half in L.A. before you were born. Eric loves you, and he’ll support you, but you have to support him right back. Besides, kid’s gonna love Quebec City. Get a big French house with a big French kitchen and a view of the river, he’ll be happy as a clam. You need help finding a place, you let me know. We can take a day trip. I’ll call my realtor tomorrow.”</em></p><p class="p1">“Papa.”</p><p class="p1"><em>“I’m being aggressively supportive.” </em>Bob says gently. <em>“This fucking sucks. I know how much you love Providence, but if you want to keep playing, you have to roll with the punches. This team’s uprooting your life, you make them pay for the privilege, you get me?”</em></p><p class="p1">Jack nods, even though there’s no way his father can see him.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“I’m happy to keep talking to you all night, but I think you need to talk to Eric. Call me later if you need. Any time tonight, don’t worry about waking us up. Love you, kid. Let us know what happens.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">“Thanks, Papa.” Jack whispers. “Love you, too.”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“And Jack? This is not a failure, okay? You've done nothing wrong — in fact, you've done so well Quebec is trying to drag you back kicking and screaming. This is an opportunity. If there’s anyone that can handle this, it’s you.”</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Mister Grumpy, that’s your bad news face,” Eric jokes, glancing up from a crisp Beef Wellington he’s nudging onto a plate. “Who’s the sacrificial lamb? Remember, if it’s Poots, you owe me twenty.”</p><p class="p1">Jack tries to school his features into something normal, but they’ve been together for too long and Eric’s bemusement turns to genuine concern.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, no, something happened. Bad-bad news? Oh, god, it’s not Tater is it?”</p><p class="p1">“No, no,” Jack sniffs, trying to wet his throat, trying to school his expression into something less terrified. “There was a mistake . . . my contract revisions weren’t finalized before the 31<span class="s2"><sup>st</sup></span>.”</p><p class="p1">“Ah, okay,” Eric’s concern abates into something nonplussed. “Did they fine you? What’s the penalty, like, fifty thousand?”</p><p class="p1">Jack can’t bring himself to speak just yet, untrusting of his voice, so he rips the crust off the end of the Wellington and shoves it into his mouth as Eric’s mild interest turns to horror.</p><p class="p1">“Jack! I haven’t posted anything yet! What has gotten into —”</p><p class="p1">“I’m eligible for the Nordiques expansion draft.” Jack interrupts, mouth full and for once not relishing the way his partner falls into a stunned silence.</p><p class="p1">“Phillipe submitted your paperwork a day late and you’re eligible for the expansion draft.” Eric lifts his hands from the counter as if holding an invisible bread loaf, processing the information. “That’s idiotic. No one is going to take this seriously, could you imagine if the Penguins accidentally left Sid vulnerable? The Aces just casually forget to insulate Parson? No, no, this is going to sort itself out. It’s a mistake.”</p><p class="p1">“The Nordiques are threatening a lawsuit if Providence tries to protect me outside of negotiated terms. I’m eligible, and they’re planning to draft me. Apparently there’s going to be an announcement tomorrow.”</p><p class="p1">Eric covers his face with his hands.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Jesus, you’re serious. Jack? We just moved in. Jack, we have the —“</p><p class="p1">“You don’t have to come with me.” Jack rushes. “You have a shop to open, I just need a season to get settled, we’ll figure it all out.”</p><p class="p1">“Don’t you dare say that. I’m not leaving you <em>alone</em>.” Eric fires right back, tugging the dishtowel from his shoulder to grab the oven pan and loudly drop it in the sink. “When is this happening? How much time do you have?”</p><p class="p1">“Couple weeks, maybe a month or two. Announcement hasn’t been made yet, but it sounds like everything’s going to move pretty quickly once it’s finalized.”</p><p class="p1">Eric braces his arms on the counter and drops his head to stare at the Beef Wellington, ripping off a crust piece from the other end and stuffing it into his mouth, chewing intently as he thinks. Jack reaches over and peels another strip of breading. The go back and forth like this until there’s a naked, steaming filet loin as exposed to the universe as Jack seems to be.</p><p class="p1">“I worked so hard on this,” Eric whispers, reeling back to grab a meat fork from the knife block. “Not soggy at all, I bet the meat is perfect,” Eric cuts down the center revealing pleasantly pink steak. “Yup. That would have been a million views, easy.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers. “Bits, I’m so sorry.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, my God, You have nothing to be sorry about,” Eric slices the filet and holds the sharp prongs of the fork up to Jack’s face, offering a taste. “You worked so hard to find the perfect team and now you’ve gotta start all over. . .”</p><p class="p1"><em>“Ouais,”</em> Jack mumbles.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, baby, come here,” Eric drops the fork and unties his apron, coming around the counter to draw Jack into a hug, Jack immediately crumpling into his husband’s arms. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’ll be okay, we both will. Don’t worry about me, or the bakery. We’ve got time to sort that stuff out. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p class="p1">Jack wraps his arms around Eric and stops fighting the tears that have been threatening to fall since George’s phone call; Eric just stands with him. Swaying gently back and forth as Jack breaks down.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, Sweet-Pea,” Eric whispers gently when the worst of Jack’s sobs have subsided. “Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me I’ll actually need to learn French, now.”</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">“— We want to make the transition as painless as possible,” Wilmington says warmly, though Jack can tell the man is as aware of Jack’s apprehension as anyone. “The owners havea local brokerage that has already been looking at homes in the area that will suit your needs. The Nordiques are happy to call the property you choose an under-the-table bonus, of sorts.”</p><p class="p1">“We just renovated <em>our</em> house for Eric’s show,” Jack rubs his eyes, already tired of the conversation. “Anything you select needs an industrial kitchen with good lighting or there’s no point.”</p><p class="p1">“We can find good contractors, as well,” a woman in a smart suit beside Wilmington suggests. “Clear the permits to get work done before you’re ready to move in.”</p><p class="p1">“Jack, we are incredibly excited to have you back in Quebec, and we want to do everything possible for you to make this team your own.” </p><p class="p1">Jack glances out the window at the overcast afternoon sky, dumping rain on the river and covering the city in a misty haze. He loves this kind of weather. In any other scenario, he’d be thrilled to be here, back in Quebec, the first Captain of a shiny new franchise in his home Province. In another life, this was the dream.</p><p class="p1"><em>A</em> dream.</p><p class="p1">Now, it’s just a threat to his relationship.</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“I know we saw the photos, but, wow? This is like an actual, honest-to-goodness chateau.”</p><p class="p1">Jack wants to laugh at Eric’s pronunciation but knows he’ll only earn himself a bruised arm so he holds his tongue.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah, that’s part of the whole ‘<em>French Canada</em>’, thing,” Jack chirps, but his heart isn’t in it. “This is also one of five homes they picked out for us to look at so if you hate it we can move onto the next thing.”</p><p class="p1">“You need to take me to France to prove it.” Eric adjusts his hat —a Falconers cap from Jack’s first Cup run, a small act of protest — and cants his head up to the second level, eyeing the decorative iron railing along the windows.</p><p class="p1">Once the realtor is out of earshot, fussing with the lockbox, Eric looks up at Jack intently and says, “We should pick the most expensive one. Make them work for you.”</p><p class="p1">“The most expensive option doesn’t have a decent kitchen. Light is terrible. Already checked.”</p><p class="p1">“Give me a two million dollar signing bonus and I’ll <em>build</em> the right kitchen,” Eric grumbles, pulling out his phone and forcing a smile at the camera to unlock the screen.</p><p class="p1">“Hey.” Jack rests his hand over the screen, anticipating the warning look he gets immediately. “Can you just be here with me? It sucks, I know, but I can’t do this alone.”</p><p class="p1">The breeze is picking up, bringing cool air from the St. Lawrence river and for a moment, Jack can imagine living here; raising a family in the province he called home for so long. Eric’s irritated furrow eases as Jack returns his hand to his pocket, but he doesn’t put his phone away.</p><p class="p1">“I’m going to check and see what the commute time is to the arena,” Eric explains gently, adjusting his tone in relation to Jack’s clear unease. “And I’m going to see if anything new has been listed today, but I’m right here with you. We’re going to find the perfect house. You are going to have amazing new teammates. You are blessed. You are loved. Deep breath?”</p><p class="p1">Jack inhales deeply, expanding his diaphragm and casting his gaze up to the bright blue sky, holds for twenty seconds, then exhales slowly.</p><p class="p1">“Thanks, Bits.”</p><p class="p1">“C’mon.” Eric smiles and takes Jack’s hand. “Let’s go see what the fuss is about.”</p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="u"> <span class="s1"> <b>Year Two</b> </span> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Jack doesn't hate much of anything. Growing up in the public eye meant hard opinions had to be kept quiet, and eventually those opinions stopped being hard at all. Jack knows he's supposed to care when microphones are shoved in his face and he's questioned about his personal life, his proclivities, if being so far from his husband for so much of the year is affecting his play . . . he doesn’t lie, but is isn’t totally honest either. Jack isn’t the only man on his new team that was separated overnight from their parter or family entirely.</p><p class="p1">Bernardo’s wife and baby daughter are in California. Stravoska’s fiancé is in Ukraine waiting on visas. Davey’s been trying to move his mother up north from Texas for almost six months. Of course it’s hard, but it’s not devastating. Jack can still play, and he can play <em>well</em>. The whole team seems to run on some measure of defiant spite, most castaways from their respective teams that weren’t skilled enough on the ice (or at negotiating contracts) to avoid having their lives upended.</p><p class="p1">Jack’s is the captain of a new team with a chip of its shoulder and literally everything to prove. It’s been amazing watching previously undervalued players step up into superstar roles, Jack himself was already good, but now? Now, he’s a beast, scoring at least a goal every night. In Providence, Jack was a show pony. In Quebec City, he’s a damn war horse.</p><p class="p1">Sadly, the casualty of this sudden, defiant success, is Eric’s burgeoning career; keeping him from spending every moment with Jack as he puts thousands of miles and several timezones between them. Ever since Eric’s part-time culinary segment on a popular morning show in Boston turned into a full-blown series order for the Food Network’s new streaming platform. Since then, Eric travels about as much as Jack, from all over the country to all over the globe. The irony being that even if Jack had stayed in Providence, Eric would have been the one to leave him behind half the year.</p><p class="p1">So, on the rare occasions they get together, it’s a raucous good time. At least when they’re awake enough to enjoy each other’s company.</p><p class="p1">"<em>Tabarnak</em>, you're gorgeous —"</p><p class="p1">Jack can't keep his hands still, every time he finds a place to rest, on Eric's biceps, his hips, his thighs, there's suddenly another bit of exposed skin requiring Jack's attention. It's a sensory overload of the most glorious kind.</p><p class="p1">"Haven't shaved in forever, prepare for pricklies."</p><p class="p1">Jack runs his lips along the hollow of his partner's throat, earning a giggle. Not the reaction he was hoping for, but the sound is a comfort as Jack pulls back to just look at Eric. It's been months since their last rendezvous and while Jack never seems to shake his haggard, disheveled appearance, he tried to clean up. Shaved. Got a haircut. Thinned out the tangles downstairs. Standard pre-visitation upkeep. Now, resting his chin on Eric's sternum, Jack can see their months apart haven't been as kind to Eric; his hair is longer, face leaner than Jack recalls, and exhaustion rolls off him in waves.</p><p class="p1"><em>"Mon Ange, </em>you are tired<em>." </em>Jack pulls himself upright, braced over his half-clothed partner, whose tired lust has shifted to confusion.</p><p class="p1">"I am not," Eric defends, though his argument is toothless. "Long flight, that's all. I want to see you."</p><p class="p1">"All you are seeing tonight," Jack rests a deft finger on the bridge of Eric's nose, watching the man go crosseyed trying to follow him, "Is the inside of your eyelids. It's late. Sleep. We can fuck later. Captain's orders."</p><p class="p1">"Not <em>my</em> captain," Eric yawns, knocking Jack off balance to fall bodily on top of him. "But I accept your terms, darlin'. Go limp, baby. Suffocate me."</p><p class="p1">Jack relaxes, spreads his arms, and waits until he hears the soft <em>'oof'</em> of a squished Eric Bittle.</p><p class="p1">"Are you dead?"</p><p class="p1">In lieu of an answer, Eric instead reaches around and grabs a meaty handful of Jack's asscheek, as if this contentious piece of Jack's anatomy is little more than a stress ball. They fall asleep like that. When Jack wakes in the middle of the night, he finds they’ve somehow switched positions, Eric dozing on Jack’s chest like they’re back at Samwell crammed onto a tiny twin, making the best of their limited time together.</p><p class="p1"><em>“I love you.”</em> Jack whispers, reaching up to nudge the fringe of Eric’s hair out of his face. There’s no response. </p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="u"> <span class="s1"> <b>Year Three</b> </span> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“Bitty, what do you think about adoption?”</p><p class="p1">“What, like a dog?”</p><p class="p1">“No, a kid. Adoption-adoption.”</p><p class="p1">Eric’s eyes go wide on the screen, even with the call being slightly grainy, Jack doesn’t miss his husband’s clear surprise.</p><p class="p1">“Adopt? Oh, wow, Jack, I thought you were going to ask me about the summer home.”</p><p class="p1">Eric doesn’t offer any other comment, clearly blindsided by the conversation in a way that makes Jack’s stomach do flips. He’d been expecting a reaction to the idea, but not this.</p><p class="p1">“I mean, what do you think?”</p><p class="p1">“I think this is a huge conversation and I’m not even in the Western Hemisphere to have it in person.”</p><p class="p1">“Monroe just adopted, used an agency in the province that found them a little boy, it got me thinking.”</p><p class="p1">“Lord, it’s such a weird time right now,” Eric worries his lip glancing away from the computer, probably at whatever four-star view the production has provided this week. “But, to be clear, I’m not saying no. I’m just not sure I’m saying yes, yet either. We both travel so much — ”</p><p class="p1">“What if I did the legwork?” Jack interjects. “Talk with the agency, get things rolling, and then when you are ready, we’ll be ready.”</p><p class="p1">Even on a video call, Jack can see the way Eric’s lips thin in the slightest hint of displeasure. It’s faint, but Jack knows his husband; has known his tells since before they even started dating.</p><p class="p1">“We’ll talk about this seriously when I get home, okay? We have so much to discuss if this is really happening.”</p><p class="p1">“Absolutely.” Jack smiles, taking the victory. “When you get home.”</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="u"> <span class="s1"> <b>Year Four</b> </span> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“— I step off the plane and it’s like I’m in another world. I have to go through customs to get to my own house, to see my own husband? How am I getting frozen out of my <em>own life</em>?”</p><p class="p1">“You can still learn French,” Jack assuages tiredly. “We can get you a tutor, a real, corporate one—“</p><p class="p1">Eric slams his hands on the dash, startling Jack.</p><p class="p1">“I don't want a fucking tutor! I know I should be content because we have this great life and a gorgeous home in a gorgeous place, but everything up here is about you. Your country, your language, your career.”</p><p class="p1">“I didn’t choose this, Eric.”</p><p class="p1">“No, you just talked nonstop for two months about your renegotiation deadline and <em>casually</em> missed it.”</p><p class="p1">A shiver crawls up Jack’s spine at the certainty in Eric’s tone.</p><p class="p1">“Is that . . . is that what you think? That I did this on purpose?”</p><p class="p1">“The paperwork was on <em>your</em> desk to finalize, Jack. With all the little post-it <em>‘sign here’</em> tabs and even a huge red stamp that said ‘DUE BY’. Phillipe didn’t make a mistake, <em>you</em> didn’t sign the agreement until after the deadline. That’s the reason we’re in Quebec City. You. And I’m sick of you acting like that’s not exactly what happened.”</p><p class="p1">Jack grips the steering wheel and thinks back, now almost four years removed from the madness that was his last season with the Falcs.</p><p class="p1">“How can you ‘<em>know’</em> that?” Jack demands, anger getting the better of him. “What, just assuming I fucked us both on a whim?”</p><p class="p1">“I know you because I’m your <em>fucking</em> husband!” Eric seethes, eyes red, but not from tears. “Some part of you wanted this, and there was nothing wrong with that, but if you’d been honest with me I could have prepared! I could have hired different managers, I could have held off on the lease, or found a Toronto-based studio to handle the pilot, all you had to do was talk to me! Now, I’m living half the year alone in California, and you want to adopt a child I can’t even <em>talk to </em>on the phone — ”</p><p class="p1">“I’m the one who can’t move!” Jack shouts, voice reverberating in the car and surprising Eric into silence. “<em>Tabarnak</em> — I’m the one who’s fucking stuck here under contract for another three seasons. I don’t bitch when you vanish for months at a time and all I get is a fucking emoji heart after a week of silence, or when your seat is empty at my playoff games, or when I have to attend the NHL Awards with my parents because my partner is god knows where. I don’t complain about anything because I love you, and love is supposed to be fucking unconditional!”</p><p class="p1">“Unconditional?” Eric scoffs, crossing his arms in a manner that used to be endearing and now is only a sign of an imminent emotional thrashing. “Oh, let’s talk about events, Jack. Let’s talk about partners refusing to step up and support each other: How many invitations have I sent you for a book launch, a wrap party, a taping, or, my god, the damn Daytime Emmys? I won, Jack. Culinary Host. And you <em>weren’t there</em>.”</p><p class="p1">Halfway through the tirade, Jack’s defensiveness gives way to resignation. He’s tired of fighting. Tired of being alone. Tired of having no one to share his success with.</p><p class="p1">“Sue me for wanting a kid.” Jack says when the tension becomes unbearable. “For wanting someone in my life who’s excited to see me when I come home.”</p><p class="p1">“A child isn’t going to fix this, Jack.” Eric says softly, shifting his gaze toward the snowy landscape. “I really thought you’d tell me about the contract. You’re the only person I know who doesn’t procrastinate. Everything done weeks in advance, on time, every time. I thought you might be trying to run out the clock, set yourself up to retire. Then you re-upped and I realized I have no idea what’s going on in your head, anymore. None.”</p><p class="p1">Snow is collecting on the windshield in earnest now, blocking their view of the house. Jack flips on the wipers but only succeeds in pushing the heavy slush from one side of the window to the other.</p><p class="p1">“What do we do, now?” Jack asks, numb. “Because clearly there’s something wrong.”</p><p class="p1">“I guess we do what everyone does when things aren’t working.” Eric sighs, slapping his gloves against his open palm one, two, three times before tugging them on, spreading his fingers wide to stretch the new leather. “We’re not so far gone the relationship isn’t salvageable, I think, but it will be if we don’t do something soon. We talk to someone. We stop ghosting through each other’s lives like we’re waiting for everything to get easier, because this is it. This is us; happy, successful, and married. We hit a road bump, that’s all.”</p><p class="p1">Against the black leather of the steering wheel, Jack’s knuckles match the winter scape outside; he unclenches his fists and mirrors Eric’s flexing to get the circulation back. It’s difficult to find his voice, having retreated to some safe place, but when he does he looks at his husband, older, jaded, and manages, “I don’t want to lose you, Eric.”</p><p class="p1">Eric offers a weary half-smile, reaching across the center console to take one of Jack’s tingling hands; the gloves offer a distracting contrast, and Jack’s never wanted to feel Eric’s skin more than in this moment.</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="u"> <span class="s1"> <b>Year Five</b> </span> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Sugar, I’m late or you’re early — what time is it?”</em>
</p><p class="p1">“Uh,” Jack peers at the clock beside his bed instead of checking his phone like any sane person interrupted mid-REM cycle. “<em>Trois?</em>”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“AM? Lord above, I am so sorry, I just got out of filming and wanted to call to say I was thinkin’ about your handsome face.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">“Miss you too, bud,” Jack groans, rubbing the grit from his eyes, debating if he should just get up early and call it a day. “You wrapped the episode yet?”</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“That’s tomorrow. A few pickup shots.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">“I’m sure it’s great,” Jack assures, clearing his throat and wishing he was slightly more awake because Eric is clearly nervous and his English is failing them both. “You can do this with your eyes closed.”</p><p class="p1"><em>“I know, I’m just . . .” </em>the line goes silent, long enough Jack thinks the call may have dropped. Then, <em>“I’ll be alright, Canada.”</em></p><p class="p1">“You always are,” Jack yawns. “You got this.”</p><p class="p1"><em>“Love you.” </em>Eric breathes.</p><p class="p1">“Love you, too, <em>Lapin.</em> Good luck.”</p><p class="p1">The call ends, Jack flops back against the pillows. </p><p class="p1"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">An early morning tweet filled with hearts and snowflake emojis alerts Jack that Eric has finally wrapped principle photography on the first season of his new show, and he’ll be returning to the the States.</p><p class="p1"><em>‘I’m coming to see you!! Where are you playing? I’ll be there.’</em>Eric encourages, with a photo of himself all bundled up against a cloudy Tokyo skyline. He’s smiling, but the happiness doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s exhausted.</p><p class="p1"><em>I’m in Florida the 22</em><span class="s2"><em><sup>nd</sup></em></span><em>, </em>Jack fires back. <em>Miami. I’ll get you a ticket. Maybe we can sneak away after to get you some sun.</em></p><p class="p1">The reply comes quickly, a mess of little suns and more hearts. Jack sends a heart of his own, reminding Bittle he needs to get to the rink, and doesn't think much about the interaction until he's on a bus to Montreal and has a few minutes to fire off an email to the Nordiques’ AGM and Travel Coordinator, respectively.</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">They’re alone enough that when Eric catches sight of Jack in the service tunnel, Jack gets about three seconds of warning to brace himself before Eric is leaping up into his arms, squealing, “You were amazing! All those goals!”</p><p class="p1">“All because of you,” Jack praises, getting a hand under Eric’s jersey as he peppers kisses over his husband’s face, “My lucky rabbit. I need to bring you to all my games.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah? Just don’t cut off my foot anytime soon,” Eric takes a quick look around and slides a hand around the back of Jack’s neck, pulling him into a soft kiss. “Oh, I missed you, Sweet-Pea.” Eric rests his lips against Jack’s cheek. “It’s been a long couple of weeks.”</p><p class="p1">Jack pulls back a touch and notices the bags under Eric’s eyes, his dry lips, the general exhaustion dulling his natural bubbliness.</p><p class="p1">“You need to rest, <em>mon coeur</em>,” Jack adjusts his footing to lift Eric into a more comfortable hold, realizing he’s also a bit too tired to keep his partner’s feet off the ground much longer.</p><p class="p1">“Mmm, no, I just need a B-12 shot and all that sun you promised,” Eric protests as Jack eases him to the ground, but he doesn’t let go. “And maybe some good old fashioned quality time with my big, handsome husband.”</p><p class="p1">“B-12? Thought for sure you’d say protein shot.” Jack nudges his closed fist against Eric’s chin. Jack can't express how happy he is Eric was able to make it down. They may only have a day together, but as they’re neck-deep in their respective seasons, it's a blessing. He also realizes far too late that Eric is wearing a familiar sweater.</p><p class="p1">“Where the hell'd you find this?" Jack tugs at the light blue sleeve of the Rimouski jersey.</p><p class="p1">"Thrift shop in Montréal, can you believe it?" Eric says proudly, spinning on his heel so Jack can see his own name emblazoned across the back. Jack grins, noting the contact marks, tracing the faded outline of his own signature across the number '1'.</p><p class="p1">"This is game worn. Did you get the COA, too?"</p><p class="p1">Eric turns his torso back and forth thoughtfully, holding eye contact long enough the question becomes a full blown staring contest.</p><p class="p1">“Ugh, fine,” Eric relents. “You caught me. I found it on Ebay. Is it weird if I kinda wanted to see if it smelled like you? No, don’t answer that.”</p><p class="p1">"No?” Jack grins, thinking about how decidedly not creepy and very hot he finds the thought. "But maybe you want me to sleep in it tonight, 'cause then it'll smell like me. Again."</p><p class="p1">“I don’t think you can fit in this sweater, but we can certainly try." Eric tugs the collar up, hiding his chin, but Jack can still see his blush. "Kinda thought you might like to see me sleep in it, instead?"</p><p class="p1">“Keep saying things like that and I can’t be held responsible for my actions. You’ll get me in trouble.”</p><p class="p1">“Was kinda counting on it, Captain.”</p><p class="p1">Every other thought in Jack's head vanishes like someone pressed delete on his higher function; Jack needs to get Bittle back to the hotel immediately. It’s been so long since they’ve had a night alone together, Jack’s almost forgotten what it’s like to be married.</p><p class="p1">“Cap! Hey!”</p><p class="p1">The temptation falls away, compartmentalized quickly as Jack turns to find Davis sprinting down the corridor, slowing to a jog as he catches sight of Bittle and whatever look Jack is unable to school off his face.</p><p class="p1">"Boys are going to, uh, hit the club,” Davis offers, reading Jack’s posture, already angling to retreat. “You could bring this dude, too. Probably. Hi. Whoa. You’re Eric Bittle, right?”</p><p class="p1">"Hey." Eric waves, adjusting himself away from Jack. “Yup, that’s me. Nice you meet you, Mister. . . ?”</p><p class="p1">“Davey, Eric. Eric, Davey.” Jack introduces, mouth very dry for some reason Jack doesn’t feel like exploring further. “He’s new.”</p><p class="p1">"Nate," Davey extends a hand for a firm shake, his free hand over their clasped arms to point at Jack. "I play with your, um, husband? Congrats on being, uh, you. You're great. My mom and I watch Food Network all the time and — fuck, she loves you."</p><p class="p1">The fog-brain Jack gets this close to Eric can be blamed for a number of maladies, not the least of which being temporary memory loss; enough to forget that Eric’s name recognition is possibly now wider than his own. Jack realizes Davey’s nervous posture isn’t a reaction to possibly catching his captain getting handsy, the kid’s a fan of <em>Eric’s</em>.</p><p class="p1">"Aren’t you a sweet thing?" Eric's media smile slips to a genuine one as he gives Jack's d-man a firm shake. "It's a pleasure! Would you like a picture to send her?"</p><p class="p1">Davey looks to Jack, possibly for approval, which he must somehow indicate because Davey goes, "Hell yeah! That'd be great, she'll freak!"</p><p class="p1">Jack ends up recording a short video of Eric wishing ‘Marie’ a great day and lavishing praises upon her handsome, talented son. Jack should be looking at his partner, but all he can focus on is his teammate's earnest excitement.</p><p class="p1">Eric checks the footage before handing the phone back to Davey, sidestepping a passing security guard with the grace of a man who’s very used to blindly navigating stadium underbellies.</p><p class="p1">"There you go! I hope she loves it."</p><p class="p1">"You're the best, man, seriously, thank you," Davey looks at Jack, dopey grin schooling up as he remembers why he's there in the first place, and continues, "Right, yeah, boys are going to celebrate, you coming?"</p><p class="p1">"Thanks, but I promised Bittle,” Jack doesn’t manage to catch himself, trying to apologize silently when he sees Eric’s eyes flit his direction, “— we'd catch up. Try to keep curfew, eh?”</p><p class="p1">“You have fun tonight while Jack and I spend some quality time together, and if you keep watching his back for me, there might be a few jars of my homemade jam in your future.”</p><p class="p1">Davey’s eyes go round as saucers as he fires off a sloppy salute and sprints back to the locker room — likely to keep from missing his ride — turning back halfway to wave at Eric. They watch him disappear, shoulder to shoulder, waiting. Eric adjusts his sweater. Jack catches a glimpse of collarbone and recalls what he’d been looking forward to before the interruption.</p><p class="p1">"Well, he’s a sweetheart. And a baby, what, twenty? Maybe?”</p><p class="p1">"Yeah, Davey’s a good kid." Jack snakes an arm around Bittle's waist and tugs him close. "C'mon. Got a reservation at Tao just in case. Dinner?”</p><p class="p1">“Dinner,” Eric sighs, leading Jack to the exit. “Then I really want you to do something indecent to me. Downright filthy.”</p><p class="p1">“I think I can manage that.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah? Maybe you can call me ‘Bittle’ again for old time’s sake, too.”</p>
<hr/><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="u"> <span class="s1"> <b>Year Six</b> </span> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">“What if I retired?” Jack looks up from his shoes, thought popping into his head and out his mouth like he hasn’t spent two decades training himself to not do exactly that.</p><p class="p1">“What?”</p><p class="p1">“Retired. If I was home and could, you know, raise a kid. While you work.”</p><p class="p1">“You?” Eric blinks rapidly, as if the thought has never occurred to him before this moment. “<em>You’d</em> retire?”</p><p class="p1">“Contract’s up in a year,” Jack reminds. “What if I just didn’t re-up? I’m probably not snagging another cup, you’re only getting more famous;<em>I </em>could be <em>your </em>trophy husband.”</p><p class="p1">Eric hands, previously wrist deep in flour and egg rise to cover his mouth, but he manages to stop himself before smearing his face with raw dough.</p><p class="p1"><em>“</em>Oh, Jack, I like that,” Eric whispers guiltily. <em>“</em>I <em>really</em> like that idea.”</p><p class="p1">“See?” Jack encourages gesturing between them emphatically. “We’re still good at this! Communication, being a couple, talking through big decisions.”</p><p class="p1">“We were never <em>bad</em> at it, Sugar,” Eric counters. “You know, if you retired you could travel with me, too. Oh, my, there’s so much we could do.”</p><p class="p1">“And we could have a baby.”</p><p class="p1">Eric takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, giving Jack the impression he’s imagining just what that might look like.</p><p class="p1">“We could have a baby.” Eric whispers.</p><p class="p2"> </p>
<hr/><p class="p1">
  <span class="u"> <span class="s1"> <b>Year Seven</b> </span> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">Eric spends the entire car ride wringing his gloves, glancing out at the falling snow and asking so many <em>what-if</em> questions, Jack’s not certain he’s truly the one with clinical anxiety.</p><p class="p1">“It’s going to be fine,” Jack soothes, adjusting a vent to blow more warm air in his partner’s direction. “She’s going to love you.”</p><p class="p1">“You’ve met her so many times,” Eric starts, voice high with nerves. “If I hadn’t had to do those last minute reshoots I could have been here to welcome her —”</p><p class="p1">“You’re here now, and I’ve met her twice. She didn’t even remember me the second time, so, realistically we’ve only met her the once.”</p><p class="p1">“I’m gonna meet our little girl,” Eric gushes, fidgeting in his seat. “Drive faster, I’m excited!”</p><p class="p1">“Thought you were nervous?”</p><p class="p1">“I’m both!”</p><p class="p1">"I'm both, too," Jack grins, reaching across the console to take his husband's hand. "I'm both, too." </p><p class="p1"> </p>
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